


i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape

by quadrille



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Background Female Ryder/Liam Kosta, Background Male Ryder/Cora Harper, Canon Dialogue, During Canon, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forgiveness, Game Spoilers, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, Trust Issues, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:19:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrille/pseuds/quadrille
Summary: It’s a long road to forgiveness.But staring up at the curve of the Tempest’s ceiling, she can’t stop thinking about a cocky smirk. The burn of six-hundred-year-old whiskey on her lips and his, a hand against her jaw. A livid Kadaran sunset, red like the sky was on fire.





	i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Границы правды размываю, как хочу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916815) by [fandom_MassEffect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_MassEffect/pseuds/fandom_MassEffect)



> Title from The Crane Wives’ [_Metaphor_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36hNmOZUbgM), which is such a Reyder song I can’t even: “i keep my closet free of skeletons, ‘cause i’m much better at digging graves / but i always dig up bones in your sympathy, i can’t trust a single thing you say / i’ve gotten good at making up metaphors, i’ve gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape / and all these words are sweet and meaningless / you can't trust a single thing i say.”
> 
> I’ve become smitten with this pairing, so might write more or expand on this one, if there’s interest!

* * *

  


_“Bang,” he says with a flick of his fingers, his hand in the shape of a pistol._

  


* * *

  
Three weeks earlier, he’d been nursing a drink in Tartarus while Keema looked on, droll and unimpressed and her own glass untouched. “Tell her,” she says flatly.

“I can’t.”

An exhale of irritation. The angara are always free with their emotions, and Keema’s seem to be permanently lodged in _exasperated_. They work well together, she’s one of the few people he trusts, but that means she has the dubious privilege of seeing Reyes fucking Vidal, the _Charlatan_ , untethered by an Initiative do-gooder.

“ _Tell her_ ,” the angara repeats. “You’ve worked together on several jobs. She’s had your back with a gun, with her squad. You got her to solve those murders. Pressed all the right buttons you wanted. You can’t keep toying with a Pathfinder like this; she’ll find out eventually, and it’ll be all the worse if you don’t tell her. I know you believe in need-to-know, but this? This shit will get us in trouble. She needs to know.”

It’s all true, and Reyes knows it, but he still can’t bring himself to take the plunge.

He thinks of how Ryder looked at him. Her body pressed against his in that storage room. That warmth in her eyes; the way she shifted closer on that cargo container and turned to look at him; the _belief_ that he was a good man… 

If he could just freeze that moment forever. Slip into the skin of the spy-with-a-heart-of-gold that she thinks he is. Become something better than himself, just for a little while.

“She’ll hate me.”

“Probably,” Keema agrees. “But you should do it anyway.”

He’s silent, staring into the depths of his drink, and Keema knows then that he’s never going to do it.

Idiot.  


* * *

  
The reeking smell of Kadara’s sulfuric waters has Ryder wrinkling her nose, and Reyes laughs. “Not a perfect vacation spot, is it?”

She thumbs her suit to seal her helmet. “We’re going to fix it,” she says. And delivered with that matter-of-fact determination, the way she sees a problem and decides to tackle it head-on, the way he presents her with yet another tangled issue and she always goes _yes, and_ …

He believes her. She’s going to make Kadara a better place, a more livable home. It’s what he’s wanted for the past year. He’s been waiting for her, for someone like her, all this time.

And it’s going to make everything so much harder.  


* * *

  
“Surprise,” Reyes says, with the breezy, confident nonchalance that he’s spent his entire lifetime perfecting.

But he isn’t prepared for the stunned look on Ryder’s face, or for exactly how it gouges him open.

“This whole time... you've been lying to me.”

“Not about everything,” he says, looking straight at her now, ignoring Sloane, as if his target and number-one rival simply does not exist. He’s trying to convey as much as he can across this void, a desperate attempt to make her understand: “You know who I really am.”

In the end, pulling the trigger on his secret is a hundred times worse than pulling the trigger on Sloane.

Afterwards, Ryder is pacing agitatedly beside him, restless and furious. “Why didn’t you _trust_ me?” she demands. He’s measuring the sound of her reaction: anger, betrayal. Yes. He knew this was going to happen. Keema told him this was going to happen.

“I… liked the way you looked at me.” It’s a raw admission, the closest thing to the truth. He can’t meet her eye. “I was afraid that would change.”

Reyes can literally see her expression flickering, wrestling with a decision — until the woman finally shakes her head. “You're not the man I thought you were.”

Scathing. It is exactly what he feared; the worst things he knows about himself. He’s been endlessly spinning his wheels only to postpone this moment, this inevitable moment, this inevitable pain. He knew it was coming. That doesn’t make it hurt any less, like a bullet lodged in his side.

There’s a pause, his voice softer than before.

“I wanted to be.”  


* * *

  
The Tempest blasted away from Kadara as soon as the Initiative outpost was established, and didn’t return for months.

Ryder usually watched every ascent to admire the glittering planets disappearing below, but this time she marched off the bridge in silence. Kallo watched her go, curious, perplexed.  


* * *

  
She’s lying beside Liam in her sprawling bed, feeling his breath rising and falling beside her. The Pathfinder’s quarters must be a huge improvement from the crew bunks; he’s out cold.

 _No secrets,_ he’d said, and bared his entire drives to her. She’d spent some time flicking through the files — old episodes of some classic Earth show about a community college; the occasional elcor drama; _Fleet & Flotilla_; _The Magnificent Seven_. Notes from his HUSTL days. Half-written letters to his parents, knowing they’d never read them.

He’s a good man.

No secrets.

But staring up at the curve of the Tempest’s ceiling, she can’t stop thinking about a cocky smirk. The burn of six-hundred-year-old whiskey on her lips and his, a hand against her jaw. A livid Kadaran sunset, red like the sky was on fire. Her memories are bitter now, but she keeps coming back to them anyway.

 _You have terrible taste in men,_ she tells herself.  


* * *

  
Say this to his credit: Reyes Vidal is trying his absolute hardest to protect the outpost. He meticulously cleans out the disruptive criminal element from the port, and sends her regular updates.

Everyone on her crew mistrusts him (justifiably so), and yet Ryder finds herself defending the man.

“He wants peace,” she tells Vetra.

“That’s what he _said_ he wanted.” Vetra’s tone is withering and her expression sharp, even behind the visor. “He lied to you. I wouldn’t trust him.”

“You’re worried about me,” Ryder realises. She laughs instinctively, nervously, but her heart warms beneath her chestplate. “Don’t worry, I’m not soft on him. Not taking anything for granted. I’m on my guard.”

(Is she, though?)  


* * *

  
_You’re not the man I thought you were._

She goes over those words a lot, reliving those crucial moments in the cave. She still remembers that glimpse of Reyes’ wounded expression afterwards, right before his face shuttered from her. As he turned back into the cool, placid shell of the Charlatan, the unflappable criminal kingpin. A million lightyears away from her.

But she’d seen.

“He worried about what you would think,” Keema says breezily, mischievously. The angara is sprawled on that throne like she was born for it, one leg crossed over the other. “It was _adorable_ , really.”

_I liked the way you looked at me._  


* * *

  


> I'm not a very good one, but I'd rather have your friendship than nothing at all.
> 
>     - Reyes

  


* * *

  
The latest ‘oh-shit report’ (as Liam so eloquently calls them) features Ditaeon colonists being abducted by outlaws for god knows what reason, but the Collective has come down on the operation like a krogan hammer. It’s already sorted and fixed before the Pathfinder even lands; she walks in to find Reyes ready with a debrief.

“Mighty vindictive,” Ryder remarks, looking over the details being fed into her HUD by SAM. There were piles of outlaw bodies in the caves by the time the Collective was done with them.

“I promised you.” For once, there’s no trace of sardonic humour in his voice.

Ryder feels a shiver up her spine, and doesn’t look at him.  


* * *

  
From August Bradley to Priya Blake to Kariste Archana to Christmas Tate to, now, Reyes Vidal. The Tempest vidcomms light up every so often to discuss business, the progress on the outposts, the status of their planets, favours that need to be done. Reyes’ name blinks on the display just like all the others.

It isn’t like the rest, however; she can still feel her stomach swoop with anticipation every time she answers his call. (Is she uncomfortable? Nervous? Still angry? Excited? Sara can’t decide, and that bothers her more than the actual report.)

“You should come visit Tartarus more, if you’re on Kadara,” he says. “Considering the usual state of the job for you, it’s better to hear status updates with some alcohol at hand, no? A stiff drink and some privacy?”

Her old jokes are like ash in her mouth, remembering their flirtation: _I’d love to hear more, but this isn’t a private channel._

“We can stay on the public channel,” she says stiffly.  


* * *

  
He’s so careful.

Not all trace of the flirtatious charm has been extinguished — he’s still _Reyes_ , after all — but it’s dampened. More professional. His handshake is firm, aloof. She suspects he’s protecting himself, more than anything else.  


* * *

  
He always called her Ryder, right from the start. A cocky self-assurance with her name, a casual assertion of familiarity. With everyone else, there’s that respectful distance and awe of her position, putting her on a pedestal: Liam was still calling her _Pathfinder_ right up until he asked to make their relationship serious. She’d had to demand it from him, to see her for _her._

And nowadays he does, she knows he does.

But still. Sara remembers Reyes’ hand linking in hers as they ran down a hallway, laughing, clutching a priceless treasure. He could’ve sold it for who knows how many credits and made an absolute fortune; but they sat on the edge of that cargo container instead, the metal still-warm from the sun, and they split the bottle. She estimated that each sip must have cost a thousand credits. When he handed her the bottle, his fingertips brushed hers.  


* * *

  
After the mess on Eos, diverting the attacks on Prodromos, she finds herself vidcalling him just to check in. Every outpost is potentially in trouble, but Kadara is the one she calls first, and she calls Reyes before Christmas Tate — another decision that she doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“Have the Roekaar caused any trouble around Ditaeon?” Ryder asks. “I mean, more than usual.”

He thinks for a moment. “Nothing that we can’t handle. Keema has infiltrated the group with some of her angara, and we’re supervising patrols. They won’t get anywhere near.”

“Oh.”

Ryder realises she’s disappointed. She’d already envisioned telling Suvi and Kallo to chart a path to the Govorkam system, imagined touching down at the docks, marching down to the slums. Sitting in that enclosed room in Tartarus, bending their heads over a map of the valley and planning how to strike back.

He notices it, of course he notices it. “Why, Ryder,” that delicious rolling R again, fuck, “do you miss me?”

A beat. “Thought we’d go shooting bandits. Just like old times,” she says. She does miss being in the field with him. He’s a good damn operative.

“There are other things I miss more.”

Did he really just say that?

There’s a burst of static on the line, perfectly timed with this awkward stutter in the conversation. Ryder bites her lip. The connection is too grainy to tell his expression — he’s sketched in blue outlines, a flickering ghostlike impression — but she wonders if Reyes is regretting it too, because he’s fallen silent. “Vidal, you can’t…”

“Ah. Back to ‘Vidal’, I see. When am I going to be back in your good graces, Ryder?”

 _Never,_ she wants to say. She had been so incandescently angry back in that cave. He’d stood there and offered her everything, Kadara and his heart on a platter, and she’d spat it back in his face.

But the months have gone on, she’s voyaged around the galaxy, and her fury has cooled. There are four outposts that demand her constant attention, but Ryder keeps finding herself drifting back to Kadara, like a compass returning to its point, a satellite in perpetual orbit. (God, she hates herself sometimes.)

_No secrets._  


* * *

  
They’re in his meeting room in Tartarus one night when she finds herself with one too many drinks under her belt, probing at a wound that she thought had long-since healed and scabbed over — but apparently not, because here she is and she’s digging it up all over again.

“I would have been on your side,” Ryder says. “You should have told me before. I let you shoot her in the _back_. I was on your side, even when you lied to me.”

Reyes’ voice is steely. “Are you sure it isn’t just that you couldn’t bear to watch me die?”

That is exactly what it was.  


* * *

  
She does love Liam, as she loves her whole crew. Honestly. His desperation to make life in a new galaxy work, his relentless optimism about their circumstances. His excitement about the angara, and his utterly earnest attempts to craft a diplomacy with them. His shit-talking friendship with Jaal — Liam Kosta is probably the first person in the Initiative to bridge that divide properly, to treat their angaran envoy as more than just a representative for his entire species. He doesn’t treat the alien with wide-eyed awe and polite distance, but as a friend.

He’s sweet.

But Sara doesn’t feel that uncomfortable lurch in her stomach when she talks to him. Which is probably a good thing, really: they’re friends, they can laugh together, joke around together, and she’s comfortable, utterly _comfortable_ around him.

But still.  


* * *

  
Sweat is slicking her forehead and the back of her neck in the suit, dripping into her eyes before it’s recycled — the cool shade of Paradise is, yes, an absolute paradise by comparison.

Velonia the supply runner has just mentioned that she makes runs to Kadara Port. And Ryder finds herself asking, impulsively, about Reyes. She keeps asking people about him when crossing paths with other Kadarans around the cluster. She’s trying to piece together a patchwork knowledge of the man; if she keeps picking at it, maybe one day it’ll be a cohesive whole. Maybe then she’ll understand him, see him properly, see who he is.

So: “Ever work with a guy named Reyes?”

“Reyes? He’s one of my buyers, actually. You know him?”

“We’ve met.” Ryder’s voice is curt.

“I’m not surprised. Reyes knows everyone.” There’s a knowing look in the turian’s eye when she adds, “Some a little too well.”

Ryder is unprepared for the burst of jealousy that kindles in her chest then. It’s hot and cloying.

Drack doesn’t notice that sort of thing, but Vetra’s giving her a canny look, and Ryder winces inside her helmet. She’s going to get asked about this the next time they’re suiting up, she just knows it.  


* * *

  
_No secrets._

For a fleeting moment, she imagines what an infodump of Reyes’ entire datadrives might look like ( _no, not Reyes — the Charlatan, call him the Charlatan, because that’s what he is—_ ). There’d be countless accounts of murders, assassinations, profit on the backs of rivals, and blood spilled to increase his power, no matter what.  


* * *

  
Kadara Port is a bustling and busy place, vendors overflowing, buyers and sellers changing every time she passes through. She’s trying not to come back _too_ often, but this time it’s Vetra herself to blame: she has Ryder stubbornly searching the manifests for popcorn and graxen. Which is right when Ryder spots a familiar face, slipping through the crowds like a phantom; Reyes Vidal draws up alongside her, getting in line for the same merchant.

His eyes drift to her black eye, take clinical note of it, and then move on. If he’s surprised at the sight, then Reyes is too good at hiding it.

They talk about her shopping, she tells him about the movie night, he chuckles, and gives her a tip on who might have contraband popcorn. And for a moment she thinks they’re just going to ignore this, it won’t come up, and she’s dodged that bullet… 

But then: “Umi tells me the legendary Pathfinder got into a common bar brawl at Kralla’s Song.”

Ryder groans. “You know everything, don't you?”

“It _is_ my job to know things. And besides, people took note. It’s all they're talking about in the port.”

Unexpectedly, he reaches up and his fingertips ghost across her cheek, fluttering against the bruised skin. He’s surprisingly gentle.

A jolt of electricity shivers down her spine.

“Nice trophy. Are you alright, Ryder?"

“Better than.” It was a fun night out with Drack, turning off all her concerns and worries, just getting to be a nameless shitstirrer in the crowd instead of _the Pathfinder_ for once.

“I hope you’re not planning on making this a habit,” Reyes chides, but he’s grinning, obviously entertained. “I did promise you safety and stability in Kadara, and then there you go, fucking it all up for me.”

 _Pot, kettle,_ she thinks.  


* * *

  
“You’re going to do _what?_ ” Keema exclaims.

The angara hate the kett, yes, but not all angara are alike — and Keema cares more for the here-and-now. Her own skin, and those of the people she knows. The trees, rather than the forest. She simply frowned when they received the Pathfinder’s transmission asking for all hands on deck, all forces rallying to a mysterious navpoint, an inverted planet.

And here’s Reyes Vidal, grabbing his guns, shoving stimpaks into a bag, readying to leave his planet for the first time since they bought it with blood and a bullet.

“Stay here,” he says. “Keep them in line, keep everything moving without me. I’m going, but I’ll be back.”

“If you have some notion of going out in a blaze of glory to pretend that you’re a hero, just to impress some woman—”

“That’s not what it’s about. And I’m coming _back._ But I have to go, Keema.”

She sighs.

As he strides towards the lift leading up to the port, Reyes spares a single thought for what the hell he’s doing. It’s not just to impress Sara Ryder (although that _is_ part of it, if he’s being honest). 

No, it’s to prove something to himself.  


* * *

  
Ryder is more astonished than anyone when she hears his voice over the comms at Meridian, though perhaps she shouldn’t have been. She’s one of the people who knows him best in this entire galaxy (and she realises that with a jolt: _what does that mean_ ). She’s been defending him up and down to others, though possibly that was to justify her own decision in handing him the port.

But he’s here. They’re putting everything on the line, and Reyes Vidal has emerged from the shadows, into the bright clean light of Meridian, and he’s out on the frontlines with the rest of them. She almost literally collides with him when they take cover behind the same cargo container.

His armour is ripped open at the shoulder, the skin beneath seared by plasma. He’s swearing up a storm in Spanish, but Ryder rips open a medi-gel pack and sprays the cool gel against the wound, her hands firm against his chest. He gives a hiss of pain but then his muscles relax, head tipping back against the container.

“I’m surprised you came,” Ryder blurts out, her voice muffled by the helmet.

Reyes half-turns his head to look at her. “And miss all this? You know me, I can never resist a party.”  


* * *

  
Half an hour later, he hears that the Pathfinder team is descending into the depths of the Remnant structures — there are shouts, curses, and then the line starts crackling.

“Ryder, are you okay? What’s going on down there?” There’s a tight note of panic in Reyes’ voice, but their connection to the surface has winked out, and the Heleus teams don’t hear anything more for another hour.

It’s the most anxiety-inducing hour of his life.  


* * *

  
But they survive, and they win.

“What should I tell them?” Suvi asks, beaming, her omni-tool delivering an endless scroll of messages from the rest of the galaxy.

“Tell them we’re home,” Ryder announces, and everyone loses it.

Just behind Suvi, she happens to meet Reyes’ eye in the crowd. The man winks, then turns and leaves before she can wade through to say something to him (though she’s not even sure what she would’ve said). Ryder is surrounded by her crew, they’re all jostling, everyone’s talking, an overlapping flurry of joy and jubilance and chatter, and the only reason she’s standing is from the adrenaline, and Drack is punching her in the back, Jaal is hugging everyone he can see, and Scott looks like he’s almost going to pass out between her and Cora.

And Reyes is gone, and she wonders if she’ll ever see him again.  


* * *

  
She does. He’s back on the downed remains of Hyperion as they retrofit the station, lingering for the celebration despite the fact that Kadara’s probably screaming for his return.

“Well, if it isn’t the hero of the hour,” he says dryly as she approaches him.

“You were pretty heroic yourself.”

“I have my moments.” Reyes shrugs it off, and then his next question is uncharacteristically tentative: “Guess you’ll be… heading out soon?”

“Still a lot to do. Meridian’s just one step toward making Heleus our home.” It’s easier to talk to him if she’s just parroting off the company line, the usual inspirational bullshit that Tann always wants her to spout.

“Yeah, but a damn big one. You deserve to celebrate.” A beat. He could’ve said more then, and she’s already half-expecting some coy invitation, but the man sidesteps and backs off instead. “And I… deserve another drink. Cheers, Pathfinder.”

He _never_ calls her Pathfinder. 

“You can call me Sara,” she says suddenly — a peace offering — and he smiles.  


* * *

  
She doesn’t see him for a year, then.

The tasks of a Pathfinder keep her ridiculously busy, even without the archon breathing down their necks: she’s arranging supply chains, keeping the trading routes protected, doing interviews, delivering technology across the cluster, surveying new areas for outpost expansions. Liam is absorbed in his work with the angara; sometimes it seems like he and Jaal are going to form a cross-species tactical unit, but they both love the Tempest too much to leave. The team has mostly stayed the same, although Gil’s on paternity leave at Prodromos. 

It comes out one night while she and Cora are lounging in the Pathfinder’s quarters, the two of them just chatting, talking about their new engineer and then Gil and families generally and then romance, specifically. Cora is emboldened, and asks the question.

Ryder pauses over her answer. “It’s… convenient. I mean, Liam and I are pretty much best friends. He makes me laugh.”

“But…?”

“Does there have to be a ‘but’?”

“That sounds like a ‘but’, Sara.”

“You’re one to talk,” Ryder gripes, only half-serious, staring into her glass of wine. “You and Scott have got your thing and it’s gross and _perfect._ ”

“Not at all — your brother can be an idiot sometimes — but we do at least know what we both want from each other. When was the last time you and Liam actually _talked_ , instead of…”

Cora falls silent, still too respectful to continue. But Ryder points at her. “No, come on, say what you were gonna say.”

“When was the last time you talked like partners, rather than best friends who occasionally sleep together? I don’t mean to pry, but I know you’ve drifted apart since everything calmed down. Since it wasn’t all life-or-death anymore.”

“Ugh, Scott’s been gossiping again.”

But they’re half-hearted token complaints; Ryder’s just stalling, putting off the inevitable. She knows Cora’s right.  


* * *

  
Why in the world is everyone on her crew so interested in her relationships? (Probably because she’s the goddamned Pathfinder.) But it’s more aggravating when they’re so perceptive.

“The angara have a saying,” Jaal says thoughtfully, after a pause. “ _Burying your feelings is a broken way to live._ ”

Ryder sighs.  


* * *

  
They’ve rented out the entirety of the Vortex Lounge for a private party, and she’s not surprised at all that Reyes Vidal has somehow scored himself an invite. She finds him chatting to Dutch (who somehow, despite all his complaining, never leaves his bartending gig; the man doth protest too much), and joins him.

“I’m still amazed that there are two of you,” Reyes says, looking down the room where Scott is hanging out with Liam. (The parting was amicable. They still have movie nights together, just the two of them, but he admitted he’d gotten too busy with his own side-work besides.)

Seeing the way Reyes’ gaze lingers on her brother, she almost chokes. “Hey, hey, stop checking him out. He’s got a girlfriend! He’s with Cora. Eyes are up here, Reyes.”

“Shame. Two Ryders, that’d be something to keep up with.”

Her horrified expression sets Reyes laughing. “Only joking, Sara. Don’t mind me.” He slides a bottle down the bar instead. “Pour yourself a drink.”

She looks at the label. It’s not Mount Milgrom (they drank the last bottle in the entire galaxy), but it is whiskey. She feels her cheeks start to heat with a blush, and she hides her expression behind sips of her drink.

“So, Sara, how’s Pathfinder life?” He asks it lightly, as if they do this all the time. And her heart beats a little faster.

“Time-consuming. How’s… smuggler life?” She wanted to say _Charlatan_ , but the club is too crowded and public; they’re not in his room in Tartarus.

“Busy.”

“Any more ex-girlfriends being a pain in the ass?”

“Only you.”

“We were never…” she starts, but he’s already grinning. 

“Oh, I know. Through my own ineptitude and poor decisions, if I may be so bold. And for which I apologise.”

He’s started to relax around her again; no longer that stiff, cautious, guarded creature who shook her hand to seal a painful deal. They’ve started to recapture some of the banter and easy chemistry that drew her to him in the first place. Ditaeon is flourishing under his protective eye, so she hasn’t had much reason to stop by Kadara lately, and — 

“I’m glad to see you here,” she finds herself saying. “And I won’t even ask how you got in.”

“I was hurt, deeply hurt, to see that I hadn’t received a personal invitation. Do you treat all your allies this way?”

“Hey, I thought you’d be too busy. You’re a wanted man. Never even thought I’d catch you dead in the Nexus.”

“Being in the Pathfinder’s good books goes a long way for station security. You’re a good influence on them, helping win pardons and forgiveness for some of my people. And I’ll say it again, Sara: I can never resist a party.”

 _Forgiveness._ It’s true, she’s gotten outlaws reintegrated back into society, stationed back on the now-stable Nexus or at the colonies.

But there’s that word. _Forgiveness._

Standing next to Reyes at a bar, there are so many memories here — Sloane’s party, slipping away, a woman long-dead, the smoke of a sniper bullet. But re-examining it, Sara finds that the memories aren’t bitter anymore: all the heat gone out of her emotions, all the anger drained away. What she remembers best is his blood under her hands at Meridian, the omni-gel cool against her fingers. The respectful distance he’s kept this whole time, while her outpost shelters under his protection.

Even Vetra had reluctantly admitted it a while back. Just the smallest compliment, but: _Vidal seems to have done well by Ditaeon._

That, from the turian, was probably about the highest praise.

And so Sara makes a decision — _burying your feelings is a broken way to live_ — and drains the rest of her drink. “Everyone’s occupied,” she says, nodding to her crew. “Want to get out of here?”  


* * *

  
They crash against the wall of the Nexus Pathfinder’s quarters together, and it’s been almost two years coming.

“You have bad taste in men,” he murmurs into her neck, teeth dragging against her skin.

“The worst,” Sara agrees; finally, finally, admitting what she’s known all along. They walk backwards together as she drags his jacket off his shoulders, moving past the rows of guns, and his gaze slips over her shoulder with interest — Sara catches his jaw and turns his head back to hers. “You can play with those later.”

Then she cranes her head up, looking to the ceiling. “SAM? Lock the door and turn off your sensory link, please.”

 _Yes, Pathfinder,_ the voice hums in her ear, and she waits until that invisible presence retreats. Until she feels alone, and thus fully able to concentrate on the smirking man in front of her, whose hands are starting to creep under her shirt, his fingers cool against her hot skin.

She shoves him back onto her bed, and they shed each others’ clothes in a chaotic tangle of limbs. He tastes of whiskey again, but Reyes eventually breaks their kiss in order to move down her body, hands against her hips as he works her over with his tongue.

That callsign, Shena, _mouth,_ was indeed well-earned.

“I promise, no more secrets,” he gasps a while later, and that nearly jolts her out of her skin. Sara catches at his neck, pulls him closer and shakes her head.

“I know you’re going to have secrets. That’s only natural. Just keep me in the loop for the ones that _matter._ That’s all I ask, Reyes.”

Another bit of tension bleeds out of his shoulders. (There’s a familiar burn there, the skin mottled and ridged with scar tissue, and she touches it thoughtfully.)

“Just don’t lie to me about the big stuff,” Sara says.

There’s a pause. Then: “Thank you,” Reyes breathes, and it sounds like a weight off his back that he’s been carrying for years, for decades, for possibly six centuries.

Again, she’s hit by the realisation that apart from Keema, she may be his only friend in the entire goddamn galaxy, and that this shady bastard is the one that she wants.

She kisses him.


End file.
